He dried his wings-like gauze they grew, I said, when first the world began, She gave him mind-the lordliest Thereto the silent voice replied- This truth within thy mind rehearse, Is boundless better-boundless worse."" The despondent spirit then goes on to show that the existence of any particular item is immaterial in so vast an universe. The hope-blest voice demands that some peculiarity gives an individual value to every separate human being. "To which he answered scoffingly- Is cancelled in the world of sense!" A shower of tears is the poet's reply. Again the Mephistophilean voice urges the despondency of his heart, as a conclusive argument of the insufficiency of human life to attain felicity. The brighter voice consults patience in you, "Shut the life from happier chance!" "Were it not well to bide mine hour, I said when I am gone away- The darkness of his soul avers that it is viler to breathe and watch, than once from dread of pain to die; adding "Art thou so bound To men, that how thy name may sound Go, vexed spirit, sleep in trust; The right ear, that is filled with dust, 'Hard task to pluck resolve!' I cried, He urges that the future may bring a happier time. "To sing the joyful pæan clear, And sitting, burnish without fear The brand, the buckler and the spear." Appealing at the same time to the old visions of future glory, which may yet come to pass. It may yet happen "In some good cause-not in mine own To perish, wept for, honoured, known, Whose eyes are dim with glorious tears, Then dying of a mortal stroke What time the foeman's like is broke, The desponding spirit declares all these are but the "stirrings of the blood," those impulsive delusions, without which life would expire beneath the steadfast weight of misery, and the daily, hourly invasion of wrong. He concludes this strain with a verse painfully revolting to the egotism of man. "For every worm beneath the moon, Draws different threads, and late and soon Spins, toiling out his own cocoon. dull, one-sided voice, (said I,) I know that age to age succeeds, I said-1 toil beneath the curse, And that in seeking to undo Consider well-the voice replied, His face that two hours since hath died, All the miseries of the human race pass over his head; he is insensible to all. him not. Earthquakes rouse Finely, subtly, logically, the poet answers the doubter "If all be dark-vague voice-I said, These things are wrapt in doubt and dread, Nor canst thou show the dead are dead." Oh! the volume of thought, the world of suggestion, the chaos of doubt in that one line "Thou canst not show the dead are dead." Finely Hope threads the perplexing maze of poetical metaphysics, and artistically utters, as an apology for the insufficiency of language, to render the mysterious clear. "I cannot make this matter plain. As old mythologers relate, And here we find in trances, men Forget the dream that happens then, Until they fall in trance again, I might forget my weaker lot; The still voice laughed-I talk, said he, The brighter spirit says in reply— "Why set not forth, if I should do This rashness, that which might ensue, How marvellously poetry condenses in a single expression a course of thought, sufficient to "make us pause again" "Whatever crazy sorrow saith, No life that breathes with human breath, "Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant, To this the spirit of gloom and despondency answers " in quiet scorn, Behold, it is the Sabbath morn !" This is the pivot of the argument: "The sweet church bells began to peal." "On to God's house the people prest, One walked between his wife and child, The prudent partner of his blood And in their double love secure, These three made unity so sweet, I blest them, and they wandered on: A second voice was at mine ear, And forth into the fields I went, I wondered at the bounteous hours, I wondered while I passed along, The woods were filled so full with song, So variously seemed all things wrought, And wherefore rather I made choice To commune with that barren voice, Thus closes one of the most magnificent emanations of poetical thought of modern times, and it is certainly an effort in which Tennyson puts forth all the force and beauty of his muse. A captious critic of the day has declared that this is only an elaboration of Shakspere's "To be, or not to be." The best answer is, to leave the public to read the two compositions. Tennyson's is a singular instance of the skill with which an argument can be logically and poetically carried on in a few emphatic words. On natural grounds the subject is argued-revelation is left properly out of the question; for this struggle of doubt could never rise in a christian's mind. It might, and does, no doubt, occur at some season in every |